


Case #000: A Puzzling Predicament

by AlolanMeowth



Category: Layton Brothers: Mystery Room
Genre: Al and Hilda Did Not Have A Healthy Relationship, Bill Hawks Got Murdered and it's described in detail so reader beware, But mostly angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone swears, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous Headcanons YEET, Hilda POV, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mild Sexual Content, Mystery Room Takes Place in the Eighties Change My Mind, so please skip the first january 1984 section if you don't want to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 05:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18866998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlolanMeowth/pseuds/AlolanMeowth
Summary: At first, it had been a relatively straightforward murder case, nothing that the homicide unit couldn't solve. But then, theyhadn'tsolved it. Or the murder after that, or the one after that.Hilda Pertinax finds herself, along with her boyfriend, and best friend, responsible for tracking down the most notorious serial killer since Jack the Ripper.What she doesn't expect is for The Case to consume everything and everyone around her.





	Case #000: A Puzzling Predicament

_July 1983_

 

They're poring over the files for what must be the fifth time in a row, after Al has excused himself to take yet another smoke break.

 

"I tell you, Hildy, I just don't think we can crack him from this one," Justin exhales heavily and takes a sip of bourbon. Normally, the Yard has a no-tolerance policy for alcohol, but the Commissioner's given the Golden Three special privileges as they work to solve what must surely be the most gruesome case since Jack the Ripper.

 

"I think you're right," she sighs, twirling her finger around her pen. "Would be nice if Al stopped waxing poetic and bothered to give us his marvelous insight for once," she laughs, and Justin laughs with her. Sometimes she feels like she and Justin are less Al's girlfriend and best friend and more like his long-suffering parents.

 

A voice comes from outside, muffled. Its cadence is changing.

 

It sounds like… _my god, it is_. she thinks to herself.

 

She and Justin turn to each other almost on cue, eyes wide with disbelief and amusement.

 

"Is he singing _Chicago???_ "

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_August 1983_

 

At first, it had been a relatively straightforward murder case, nothing that the homicide unit couldn't solve. But then, they _hadn't_ solved it. Or the murder after that, or the one after that. When the fourth victim was discovered, burnt to a crisp and with a jigsaw puzzle piece next to him, the Commissioner had finally decided that a killer of this caliber required the Met's three best detectives - and no one else to get in their way.

 

The Commissioner's insistence that the three of them would be the ones doing all the reporting and deducing on a case that usually would have a small army of thinkers attached to it had led them here.

 

Where was here?

 

Well, "here" was the place where Hilda, Al, and Justin were forced to spend their days, increasingly unable to spend enough of their waking hours at home to cook for themselves, let alone prepare meals in advance.

 

In other words, they were huddled around the table in Justin's office, the furiously-spinning fan losing its battle against the muggy noontime heat as they debated where to order takeaway from this time.

 

Shoes, socks, and jackets had long been abandoned, and matters were made more difficult by each of the three of them using different takeaway menus ( _we're acquiring quite a stash of them_ , Hilda muses) as makeshift fans.

 

"You know, Justin, I just don't understand why you always join us on takeaway orders, when your home is literally across the street," Hilda points out. "Surely the time Al and I spend getting to work you could be spending making food for yourself so you don't have to find yourself in this predicament."

 

She's thinking, of course, of last week, when they had ordered a pork dish that had nearly sent Al into conniptions because the pork hadn't been "pulled properly".

 

Justin shrugs noncommittally. "Lazy, I guess. Now, where can we order from that won't cause the chef here to complain?"

 

As Al snidely mentions that _all_ of the places they order from are shit, Hilda rolls her eyes. "Well, if they're all so awful, why don't you just pop over to Justin's and make yourself something?" It's meant as a joke, of course. Nothing more.

 

Al, however, springs to life at the very suggestion.

 

And so, it's because of a simple joking comment that, ten minutes later, they are standing in the kitchen of Justin's flat in the middle of the day on a Tuesday, sweating bullets, while Al runs a damage check on Justin's fridge and cupboards.

 

"This can't be it for spices," Al grits his teeth, looking for all the world as if he's witnessing a tragedy in the making.

 

"I'm afraid it is. I don't really do much fancy cooking," Justin shrugs, and privately, Hilda's glad that it's someone else under the spotlight for once.

 

She remembers how, back when she and Al had first started dating, he was actually somewhat eager when he learned that she didn't really know how to cook. Excitedly, he had set out to teach her.

 

That had ended quickly (and embarrassingly) enough.

 

As Al fumbles for a pen and a piece of paper, muttering under his breath about "philistines" and their "barbaric ways", Hilda and Justin exchange A Look, the one they so often find themselves making, a shared glance of bemusement that says "I can't believe he's doing this".

 

It seems that Al wants them to buy out an entire supermarket, apparently.

 

As Justin attempts to argue that Al should be the one to go, the man in question glowers furiously. "You think I'm going to let you two stay here when clearly neither of you have ever sharpened a knife? When I still have to take stock of what sort of pots and pans exist in this pathetic excuse for a kitchen?"

 

Justin looks offended, but in an odd sort of way. "I know how to sharpen a knife."

 

It's fruitless arguing, of course. And so, Hilda and Justin end up trudging to Sainsbury's in their bloody _work clothes_ , Al's list in Hilda's hand as Justin stands surveying the herbs section with a dour look on his face.

 

"Can't believe he didn't want to come himself. He's just gonna yell at us for not picking the freshest available cilantro," Justin grouses, and Hilda giggles, knowing that's probably _exactly_ what will happen.

 

It takes them almost half an hour to make it back to Justin's flat, where Al greets them with great impatience and, true to Justin's prediction, meticulously goes through their selections and criticizes virtually everything they bought.

 

Hilda wonders to herself whether the hastily-scribbled "gone for lunch" note left on Justin's desk will really be able to cover for the impressive amount of time they've already been gone.

 

However, when they are at last sitting down at the table, Alfendi having made what looks like a week's worth of delicious food, Hilda has to admit that maybe it was worth it.

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_September 1983_

 

Hilda's in no position to crane around to look at herself in the mirror, but she's sure her pale skin is flushed. She certainly _feels_ hot, with Al's hands on her bare shoulders and his lips on hers.

 

Her shirt is off and her bra straps are slipping off, and as she pushes Al's shirt off she can't overcome the giddiness that sweeps over her as she finally gets to _feel_ and _feel_ and **_feel_**.

 

( _I have a low drive_ , he had told her. _It doesn’t mean that I don't want you_.)

 

(They last slept together four months ago. She knows it isn't his fault, and it certainly isn't hers, but there is resentment mixed in with her want.)

 

She moves her lips to his neck and savours the groan it pulls from him, the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat as she sucks on the straining skin.

 

Growing bolder, she nudges one of her legs outside his and pushes his own legs closer together, and with a sigh she straddles him. _Finally_ , she thinks, and the bulge she feels shouldn't make her half this happy, but it does.

 

(Being with a man who says no when she offers it, who sometimes pushes her away, can make a girl feel undesirable, even if she knows that she's hot as fuck.)

 

( _He **wants** me,_ she thinks.)

 

She returns her lips to his and kisses him hard, stroking his tongue with hers and rocking her hips. As she grinds her hips down particularly harshly (can a girl help it if she's been suffering from an intimacy drought?) his eyes snap open and he lets out a sharp cry, like he's been struck by lightning.

 

"Sorry," she giggles, delighted to see her efforts affecting him to such an extent.

 

His hands are back on her shoulders, but as she moves to kiss him again, he turns his head away. "Alfendi?" She's confused. She's hoping…

 

He isn't hard anymore.

 

"No, it's -," and she cuts him off before he can say the damnable words. "The case," Hilda snaps, her lip curling and her blood, just seconds ago flowing at near boiling, churning sluggish as ice in her veins.

 

He moves to extricate himself from underneath her, and she does nothing to stop him. "I've thought of something vital just now, you see, and…"

 

She stands up so fast that her head buzzes and black spots cloud her vision, but she doesn't care. " _That's_ what you're thinking of, even at a time like this?!? You can't even pay your girlfriend the basic respect t -," but he's already standing up and pulling his shirt on.

 

"I'm sorry, Hilda, but this can't wait. Not another moment. You're on the case too, so hopefully you'll understand when I say that it's important," Al says dismissively, not even paying her the courtesy of looking her in the eye.

 

 _Too ashamed to do it_ , she thinks. _Fucking coward can't even face me as he admits he isn't man enough to love me_.

 

She doesn't yell at him, though, not this time. Her heart is too heavy, too tired.

 

Hilda watches Alfendi leave her apartment, and wonders deep inside if he even feels a thing for her.

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_October 1983_

 

It's a gloomy Monday evening, the autumn dampness sitting heavy and bone-chilling in the air. Thankfully, some genius in homicide decided to order a couple of pizzas, and since virtually the entire Serious Crimes division knows that the force's top three detectives are on a grueling case, it's practically force of habit for those in the vicinity to swing by Justin's office to ask if the group wants in on their takeaway order. Hilda's very glad, because she is _not_ in the mood for the usual drawing of straws that the three of them do to determine the lucky (or sometimes unlucky) bastard who gets to go grab dinner.

 

Dinner at the office is probably Hilda's favourite part of The Case - no talk of crime, no crushing responsibility or stress, but rather lounging on the couch with her feet up, eating junk food, listening to the radio, and relaxing. She feels somewhat bad for Justin, stuck with the veggie lover's pizza after she and Al outvoted him on the matter, but she herself takes comfort in feeling like she's eating at least _something_ healthy amidst the grease and cheese and the flask of bourbon she's been nursing as the evening wears on.

 

Al, somehow managing to finish his food even before Justin for once, gets up and excuses himself to go take a smoke break, but there's an odd look on his face and his voice sounds almost - giggly. Shortly after, Justin excuses himself as well, leaving Hilda alone to turn up the radio and sing quietly along to the Talking Heads. At least until she hears footsteps approaching, that is.

 

(She wouldn't be caught dead singing along to anything, least of all pop songs.)

 

Surprisingly, it's Justin who gets back first, not Al. "Must be smoking in his office," Justin shrugs, the smell of tobacco and a hint of the outdoor chill clinging onto his jacket. Just as Justin sits down, Al re-enters the office, walking somewhat funny.

 

Hilda and Justin glance down to see what the cause is, and both spot it at the same time.

 

Realization dawns as Al sits on the couch beside Hilda with a shit-eating grin on his face.

 

_It's October 31st._

 

Alfendi Layton, ace detective, is wearing a pair of bright red high heels. Not just any pair, Hilda realizes - _that little shit. He nicked them from my closet!_

 

"Hey. Hey, Hilda," Al nudges her side, his voice mischievous. "Don't make eye contact, Hildy," Justin sighs. "It only encourages him."

 

Al ignores Justin's wise words of advice and lifts his legs up onto the coffee table. As his pants lift up above the ankles, Hilda spots black fishnet stockings. Oh, _no._

 

( _Smoke break my ass,_ Hilda thinks. **_This_** _is what he was off doing._ )

 

"Hilda, ask me who I am," Al whines petulantly, and Hilda just can't help it. She is _this_ close to laughing. "Who…who are you, Al?" Hilda asks, covering her mouth and letting a giggle escape.

 

Justin slams his hands onto his desk in a rather dramatic fashion as he stands up, ready to be the only sane adult left in the room as Al bursts into song.

 

"I'M JUST A SWEET T-" Al can't finish the lyric, as Justin has leapt towards the couch, and as Hilda pulls her legs up onto the couch to avoid getting in the way, she finds herself laughing uproariously at the sight of Alfendi Layton doing his best to sing while jogging around the room in high heels, his pants rolled up to the knee to show his fishnet stockings, while Justin chases after him, trying desperately to contain his own laughter.

 

As Hilda wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes, she thinks that, even if this job of hers can be brutal sometimes, moments like this make it all worth it.

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_November 1983_

 

There is a powerful tension when Hilda steps into the halls of the Yard - she can sense it in the air, see it in the way that people who would normally smile and greet her refuse to make eye contact. She skipped out on reading the newspaper as she had been running late this morning, and now she's beginning to worry. _Just what the hell is going on?_

 

As she enters Justin's office, she immediately begins to cough, a cloud of smoke hanging in the air and settling heavy in her lungs. Sure, Justin sometimes smokes in his own office when he knows she isn't there, but for Al to be smoking too? And the Commissioner pacing back and forth, his brow pinched? Something is _definitely_ wrong.

 

Justin spots her first, and he at least has the courtesy to stub out his cigarette and open the window to air the place out, but Al keeps on smoking, rocking back and forth in his chair. "There you are, Hilda," the Commissioner says, his voice kind, but his eyes painting a picture of stress and fatigue. "What's going on?" For the three of them to be this worried, Hilda is expecting the worst.

 

"Didn't read the paper this morning, huh?" Al asks, and his voice is tenser than usual, sounding as if he may start ranting and raving at any given moment. As Hilda shakes her head, she glances down to Justin's desk, and then she spots it.

 

" _MET COVERUP OF TEN-TIME SERIAL KILLER BROKEN! JIGSAW KILLER STILL AT LARGE!"_

 

Oh.

 

Oh, _shit._

 

Hilda can almost _feel_ the tension, thick as the cloud of smoke in the air, reach its breaking point.

 

" _HOW_ COULD THEY HAVE FOUND OUT?!?" Al stands with such force that his chair topples over, but it doesn't even faze him as he takes a deep and desperate drag on his cigarette, his breath coming out in stuttered gasps.

 

Hilda says nothing, her face blanching, and she reaches out for anything, anything to provide stability before her legs lose their ability to keep her upright.

 

Thankfully, Justin is there to guide her to the sofa, where she sits heavily, and tells him in a weary voice, "It's okay if you smoke," because really, the situation is so serious that she very seriously considers saying "fuck it" and lighting up a cigarette herself.

 

And so Justin lights up a second cigarette, after which he plunks a small bottle of whiskey down on the table, and for a moment, everyone turns to look at him in surprise - after all, it's nine in the morning.

 

He sighs heavily. "Me with my damn one eye, I'm pretty recognizable. Wherever I go, from now on, I'm gonna be gettin' shit for not solving this case fast enough, having people on my ass telling me I'm letting innocents die. Frankly, I'm surprised none of _you_ grabbed the bottle _first_ ," Justin grates out, popping off the cap and taking a deep swig.

 

The Commissioner puts a hand to his brow, clearly ready to scold them, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Al _attacks_.

 

"Don't you say a thing about our behaviour, drinking in the morning. You were the one who said we should cover it up, you god damn fool, even though I _told_ you well and good that copycat crimes were no problem, even though I _told_ you that forensics could simply compare puzzle pieces found at supposed 'copycat crimes' to the ones we've confirmed come from the Jigsaw Killer in order to rule out their authenticity," Al snarls, "But _no_ , Mister Commissioner thought it'd look bad for a serial killer to be running loose in London. _Are you happy now?_ "

 

Al is breathing heavily, grinding his teeth as he viciously stubs out his cigarette in the coffee table ashtray before taking a swig of liquor and fishing another cigarette out of his pocket. As soon as he sets it down, Hilda grabs the bottle and downs a huge gulp, regretting it as her throat lights up on fire from the alcohol.

 

"What do we do now?" she asks. Hilda's always been a pragmatist - sure, it took her completely by shock that the killings had been leaked, but there's no way to un-leak them now. The cat is out of the bag.

 

The Commissioner nods sagely towards her, and motions for Al to sit down. "You're quite right, Hilda. And - as are you, Alfendi," he says without any semblance of guilt or shame. "I did what I thought to be right at the time, and I certainly did consider things getting leaked to the press as a possibility, but still, one that I had hoped would not come to pass. Perhaps it would have been better to be open about the investigation from the start, or perhaps not. However, I made my decision, and I will stand by it."  All three investigators lean forward, expectant.

 

 _Let us off the hook, Commissioner_ , Hilda thinks, and she reckons based on the flashing in Al's eyes and the twitching muscle in Justin's jaw that both men are thinking the same thing as her.

 

"I am perfectly confidant that you three are spotless as far as this whole debacle is concerned - I don't consider you the best the Yard has to offer for nothing. And don’t you worry - I will make sure to convey to the general public how hard you are working and that the city of London is in capable hands."

 

A audible sigh of relief from all three detectives. Hilda can't help the proud little smile that creeps onto her face at the thought that not for a single second did she, Al, or Justin suspect one another of leaking the case.

 

Why would they? They're a team. It'll be rough from now on, having to dodge the media and the general public, but Hilda knows that she, and her colleagues, can handle it.

 

_It'll take much more than a little press leak to break us apart._

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_December 1983_

 

Shivering in the pre-dawn fog, Hilda distantly wonders why she ever agreed to take Justin up on his offer.

 

( _"Trust me, working out isn't a thing like jogging. It deals with stress and anger much, much better."_ )

 

Honestly, considering the shit she's going through in both her work and personal life, she _needs_ a stronger stress reliever.

 

The gym is huge yet somehow still intimate, the brick hallways old and storied as the plaques on its walls boast how legions of the Greatest Generation trained here before liberating Europe, all those years ago.

 

Cops and soldiers have been using this place for decades (it's how Justin knows it, after all), but as she climbs the stairs to the overhead track, Hilda is struck by how many ordinary people there are here - university students discussing their theses as they jog in pairs, elderly men with their towels and headbands working to stay in shape as they age, office workers gathering up the energy for another daily grind. The normalcy of it all is startlingly refreshing.

 

"Hilda!" Justin is sitting on a bench by the track and looks positively delighted to see her. "Glad you could come - you've no idea how nice it is to have someone to work out with other than a muscle-bound ex-MI agent," he laughs. She smiles at his playful jest and, as she stretches, asks him how he is, as if she isn't spending fourteen hours every bloody day locked in the same room as him on a dead-end case going nowhere.

 

He groans. "Fuck work, let's not talk about that right now. This is where I go to get away from it all - isn't that why you're here, too?" Well, he's got that right.

 

As the pair step onto the track and start running, they talk about everything _but_ The Case.

 

( _Have you seen the new Bond flick yet? Ah, you'd like it._ )

 

( _D'you think that Andropov fellow will last much longer? Seems to me his health's on a downturn. I'm not sure - who would they replace him with?_ )

 

( _Would you believe who I saw on the Tube the other day?_ )

 

As they switch to the machines after jogging, still chatting, Hilda can't help but think that maybe Justin is onto something, coming to the gym regularly. Talking about everyday things like this, surrounded by everyday people, she can almost pretend that she's one of them. That her life _doesn't_ revolve around murders and mayhem.

 

As they leave the gym together, showered and changed into their work clothes (and with Hilda having paid for a month's membership), Hilda turns to Justin and lays a hand on her friend's arm. "Thanks for suggesting I do this," she tells him, and it's entirely earnest. "It helped me to forget everything, if even just for a little bit."

 

As Justin smiles, Hilda notices an oddly forlorn, almost melancholy look in his eye.

 

"That's why I'm here."

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_January 1984_

 

Both Alfendi and Justin are already present when she reaches the crime scene, having come in from flats closer to the location than her own. She dodges the police tape, flashing her badge at the uniformed officers manning the front door of the two-story house and vaulting up the stairs two at a time. The house is empty save for Al, Justin and the corpse - a request by the Commissioner to let his three best brains have some space to work, no doubt - but when Justin glances over his shoulder and spots her, he walks out of the room to meet her.

 

"Listen, Hildy," his face is serious in an urgent sort of way, "This victim is different from the rest of them. What's been done to her - it's violence unlike anything I've seen. Just figured I'd give you fair warning, is all," he mumbles, realizing that it's probably a stupid idea to suggest to Hilda Pertinax that she step back from a dead body and let the boys handle it, as it were.

 

Still, she has to admit to herself that it's kind of him to warn her. _Al just got here a minute before you_ , he tells her, and she sighs. That probably means that It hasn’t happened yet, then. She steps into the room.

 

Justin wasn't kidding.

 

Hilda feels her breath catch in her throat, and on instinct averts her eyes.

 

 _Whoever this killer is, death is too kind for him. He's going to rot in prison forever, alone and unloved._ She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

 

She opens her eyes at the snap of a Polaroid camera, sees Justin taking photos. Normally she's the one on photographic duty - she's got the best eye for detail, after all - but on this one occasion, she's glad that she isn't.

 

The sight of that single puzzle piece, sitting pretty between the victim's breasts, is making her stomach churn.

 

_Don't do it, Alfendi Layton. Don't do that goddamn thing you always do, your re-enactment, your godforsaken praise. Not here. Not for this. There is nothing brilliant, or inspired, or cunning about this. It's hatred, pure and simple._

 

She looks over to him, and with a sinking feeling in her gut, she sees it. The way his lip curls into a vicious smile, the sparkle in his eyes. He inhales, ready to begin the monologue that he always gives when faced with a scene such as this. Hilda screws her eyes shut, desperate to block out what's coming.

 

But it never does.

 

After the silence lasts a beat too long, Hilda cautiously opens her eyes. Justin is standing there, his fingers digging into the meat of Al's shoulder, fixing him with a more venomous expression than she's ever seen him make, indicating that should he wish, he could snap the smaller man like a twig.

 

Justin takes a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket and hands it to Al. "You need to make your grand speech, take this and go downstairs. But don't you say a goddamn thing in front of us, you got that?"

 

Hilda is very, _very_ glad that he said "us". She is not weak. She knows that much. But the stress she's under, and the nature of this crime that is much more terrifying for her than it would be for Al or Justin, has come to a boiling point, it seems. She's glad Justin is covering for that.

 

Al sighs, accepting the recorder. "All right then. Out. I'll only take five minutes of your time," he says snippily, shrugging Justin's hand off his shoulder.

 

" _Out?_ " This gets Hilda's attention.

 

"Yes, _out_. Clearly, as I am the only inspector around here who is capable of maintaining their presence in the company of the victim, I ought to be present to examine the crime scene. And since the both of you so clearly refuse to be in my presence whilst I work things out, it's only logical that you leave." Al smirks.

 

 _You arrogant **bastard**_ , Hilda thinks.

 

"You really think that we're beneath you, don't you?" Hilda balls her hands into fists. "It's too bad that we can't view murder with the same cold detachment you do, Al, but that's how things go. If you're honestly suggesting that I _leave a goddamn crime scene_ just because you're too childish to investigate things without _praising a serial killer_ , then you can do me a favour and _grow the fuck up_."

 

Al is smiling now, seeming genuinely entertained. "Oh, is that it, is it? What did you _think_ you were signing up for when you agreed to investigate these killings, when you knew as well as I that they were growing more brutal with each passing victim?"

 

This gives Hilda pause _. He's right,_ a tiny voice in her head says _. SHUT UP,_ a much louder one says.

 

Al isn't finished, though. "Does the great Hilda Pertinax honestly intend to kick me out of a crime scene when she knows _damn well_ she won't be able to solve anything without me? When she knows, deep down inside, that she may be intelligent, but other than that she's just _run-of-the-mill?_ "

 

" _Watch_ it, Al," Justin snarls, having thus far stood back from the argument. Hilda knows that she should let it stop at this intervention, but she can't. Her pride demands that she have the last word.

 

"Well, it's good that you can at least see that I'm smart, as are you, but the difference between you and me is that at the end of the day I'll be a normal person, whereas you - you're more like this killer than you are like me. A _freak_."

 

Hilda knows it's a low blow, but _damn_ if the look of surprised hurt on Al's face doesn't feel good.

 

Alfendi bares his teeth in a snarl and takes a threatening step forward. Hilda can't help it - she flinches.

 

"That's _ENOUGH_ ," Justin thunders, stepping in between the two of them. "For god's sake, let's just go, Hildy. Al," he turns to the man in question, "you've got five minutes before I'm pulling out my Glock and sending you on your merry way."

 

Justin pulls Hilda out of the room before she can make eye contact with Alfendi, or even see the expression on his face, and shuts the door behind them.

 

She walks down the stairs behind him, completely detached, and even after he turns to her in what used to be the woman's living room and apologizes for manhandling her like that, she doesn't say a word or even acknowledge that he's spoken.

 

Then there is a finger under her chin, lifting her face up to his own, full of worry and concern. She crashes back to reality, hard.

 

"I'm sorry, Justin, I-" he cuts her off. "Don't. No need to apologize. Everybody has that one crime scene that gets to them, and anyone who says otherwise is full of horse shit."

 

She feels her walls starting to crack, but she won't let them. She won't cry. Not over something as stupid as this.

 

Instead, she leans into him, feels as his arms wrap around her. "Listen, Hildy, I've already gotten a few good photos, and I'm sure the lads in forensics will pull up a detailed report. Why don't we head back to the Yard for now, and do our investigating from there," he suggests, and she smiles in spite of herself.

 

"Let's give Al his five minutes. And then, we're gonna go back up there and I'm going to write a report that's so good, he'll hate himself for even suggesting that he was a better inspector than me," she feels better just saying those words, but she doesn't step out of his arms. Not yet.

 

As Justin laughs and agrees to her plan of action, Hilda closes her eyes and concentrates. She can hear and feel, against her temple, the steady beating of his heart.

 

She finds herself loathe to let go.

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_January 1984_

 

Christ, this is going to be awkward. Even the humblest among us sometimes have problems apologizing, and, well. Hilda knows that her own stubborn pride probably causes her more harm than good.

 

Still, though, it's been a couple of days since The Incident, more than enough for her to have thought about how to best approach Al, and more than enough for Al's own temper to have cooled off to the point that she's confident he'll hear her out.

 

Alfendi's office sits across the hall from hers in the Yard, although, considering that both Al and Hilda do the bulk of their work on The Case in Justin's larger office, Al only really goes into his own office when he needs some space to think alone without being interrupted by the conversing of the lesser folk (read: Hilda and Justin), or when he needs a smoke but the weather prevents him from going outside.

 

Thankfully, today happens to be one such day, the rain sheeting down unforgivingly against the window of Hilda's office as she hangs up her greatcoat and grabs her papers and coffee mug. Steeling herself, she crosses the hall and knocks on the closed door to Al's office with three sharp raps. The lights are off, but that doesn't mean he isn't in there - Al's been known to pace his office, smoking in the dark.

 

Sure enough, he answer the door after a moment's hesitation, beckoning her inside with a quiet "Hullo, Hilda." As she enters his office, she can tell that she did indeed catch him smoking, and spots the hastily-stubbed out cigarette in the ashtray on his desk. "What can I do for you this morning?" Al's rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the floor. If she didn't know any better, Hilda would almost say he looks _embarrassed_.

 

She sits in the chair he gestures her towards, and as he takes a seat himself, Hilda takes a deep breath. "Listen, Al - both you and I know that what we said to each other back a couple days ago was completely inappropriate. We've both been under a lot of stress what with this case and all, and for my part…I truly am sorry that I called you a freak. It was out of line," she pauses, clasping her hands together fitfully in her lap.

 

"You're a brilliant man. Yes, maybe you have a different way of viewing things than most inspectors do - but that's what makes you the best. I hope you can forgive me," Hilda finishes, looking up at him hopefully. He's watching her intently, a subdued look on his face.

 

"Yes, I forgive you."

 

_Oh. Well that's rather straightforward of him._

 

Al coughs, and Hilda wonders if maybe he really _is_ embarrassed. "I…I'm sorry too, I suppose. For what I said to you. Reckon it wasn't very kind, considering the circumstances," Al can't keep eye contact, glancing repeatedly down toward the floor. Yup. _Embarrassed_.

 

Hilda wonders whether Al's apology is a spontaneous response to her own, or if Justin leaned on him prior to her coming into the Yard this morning.

 

However, his next words cast that thought into doubt. "Would you - would you be interested in going to see a film with me? There's a new one that's just hit theatres that I'd like to see…"

 

_My god, he's biting his lip._

 

Hilda feels her face break into a wide smile and nods enthusiastically. "Could you get us tickets for this Sunday?" Noticing her response, Al's face lights up. "Of course! It's about a couple of dancers…."

 

(While both of them, especially Al, enjoy the movie, what Hilda really enjoys about the whole thing is being able to experience the film and share popcorn and snacks with her boyfriend.)

 

(Sitting there, her hand in Al's, laughing along with him, Hilda can almost pretend that they are a normal, loving couple.)

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_February 1984_

 

She had asked him to stay.

 

The Case is getting to her, it's getting to all of them, but most of all, it seems to be getting to Alfendi Layton.

 

Hilda's barely pulled her sleeping t-shirt on by the time Al is fully dressed and leaving her flat without a word of goodbye. Even though it's late, she knows where he's going.

 

(There's a small couch in his office, and she suspects that he spends more time sleeping there than in his own bed, these days.)

 

As she arrives at the Yard next morning, she finds Justin working alone in his office. Al's mug collection, his pinboard of photographs and documents, everything that indicate he spent months working here have been moved.

 

(As The Case wears on, he's beginning to shut himself up.)

 

Hilda sits opposite the desk from Justin, takes a sip of her coffee. "How long has he been here?"

 

Justin sighs. "Cleaning staff told me he arrived at about one in the morning. Hasn't left his office since then," and he doesn't say it, but he looks a little worried.

 

They all are.

 

At first, Al scoffed at the notion that there was a killer he couldn't catch, but as the bodies kept piling up without a shred of decisive evidence, Hilda noticed that he began to change. At first, he was impressed. Then, one might say, enamoured. For months he waxed poetic about the cleverness, the _brilliance_ of this killer. A worthy opponent at last.

 

Hilda almost misses those days, even though they ended mere weeks ago.

 

Now, he is different. Belief that it was only a matter of time until the killer would slip up has worn thin, and Al no longer feels admiration for the Jigsaw Killer, but rather, rage, and underneath that, fear.

 

Fear that maybe, this challenge is beyond him. That maybe, he _can't_ measure up to the impossible standards he's set for himself. That maybe he _isn't_ destined to surpass his father's mystery-solving prowess.

 

Her lover is sullen and forlorn, snapping at the slightest provocation. The other day, when Hilda had offered Al her jacket after seeing him shiver, he'd launched into a tirade that provoked a ten-minute argument wherein the pair screamed themselves hoarse, and the mad look in Al's eyes had frightened Hilda so much that ten minutes later she had found herself weeping in Justin's arms.

 

(When she went back to her own office, later that night, she heard what sounded like quiet little sobs coming from Al's office, except he'd had no one to comfort him. She couldn't make herself go in.)

 

There is talk around the Yard, now, that perhaps there's a _reason_ why the killer isn't being caught. That perhaps he has an inside man, someone tampering with the evidence to ensure he remains at large.

 

The implication, which Hilda once scoffed at (along with Al and Justin, of course), no longer seems that far-fetched.

 

Nineteen people are dead.

 

Hilda doesn't know what to believe. She knows it can't be the Commissioner - his sharp political mind is offset by a fierce dedication to his officers and his city. She knows it can't be Justin - he's too down-to-earth, too honest, too uncompromising by half.

 

She wants to think that it can't be Al. After all, how could it be? Everyone can tell how heavily this case is weighing on him - why prolong it?

 

 _Unless of course, it's weighing on him so much **because** he's the one prolonging it_.

 

_Shut up, Hilda._

 

Her heart feels heavy and tired as she passes Al's office door at the end of the day, making the customary trip back to her own office to grab her things before heading home.

 

Seeing the light in Al's office on, she hesitates.

 

_You ought to check up on him, offer him food, a coffee, anything. He's your boyfriend, your friend. You can't abandon him. He needs you._

 

She knows that Al is suffering, but she recalls last night.

 

(It had been quick, and it had been violent. Perhaps a little too violent for her liking.)

 

She recalls the last time Al stepped into Justin's office, while Justin was out smoking, to collect "his" pinboard of evidence.

 

(They had argued where and to whom it belonged, and at one point he had threatened to make sure she was found with a puzzle piece of her own.)

 

Hilda closes her eyes, and comes to the sobering conclusion.

 

She is no longer in love with Alfendi Layton.

 

Hilda opens her eyes, and turns back toward her office.

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_March 1984_

 

 

On Saturday, Hilda had gone to bed at a relatively reasonable hour, determined to make the most of the Sunday morning off of work that she, Al, and Justin were granted by the Commissioner in exchange for the grueling hours they put in during the other six days of the week.

 

Her plans to sleep in until ten and then allow herself the leisure of drinking coffee while reading are cut abruptly short at approximately six-thirty in the morning with the ringing of her phone.

 

After a mad scramble to cross her room and pick it up in time, involving two falls thanks to the tangling of her sheets around her legs, Hilda hears the Commissioner's voice on the other end of the line.

 

"I'm sorry to wake you at such an hour, Hilda, but this is an emergency. I need you to come into the office. _Now._ "

 

He hangs up without even saying good-bye.

 

More asleep than awake when she answered the phone, a jolt of fear and anticipation lances through Hilda.

 

_Have they finally caught him?_

 

She shakes her head with a miserable laugh as she trudges to the kitchen in her nightshirt and knickers, sheer force of habit responsible for turning on the coffee maker despite the fact that she doesn't even really register doing it.

 

_Of course he hasn’t been caught yet. When has anything ever gone well for us in this damnable case?_

 

When she makes it to the Yard half an hour later, the entire place is practically on lockdown.

 

Plastered overtop the central message board in the foyer is a notice that proclaims, in bold lettering, that emergency firearms training sessions will be held that afternoon and evening, and provides contact details for any and all officers wishing to sign up.

 

She notices, with mounting horror, a tacked-on addendum that reads, _all groups of field personnel in the Greater London Area must be accompanied by at least one individual with a firearms license as of 22/03._

 

_That's today's date._

 

As she breaks into a jog on the way to Justin's office, she is passed by a veritable squadron of officers in full riot gear, their radios abuzz with competing transmissions.

 

She catches snatches of their hurried conversation - _emergency protection for…Ten Downing?!_

 

By the time she reaches Justin's office, Hilda's shoes have been abandoned as she flat-out sprints up the stairs in her stocking feet, knocking over a hapless office support staff in the narrow homicide hallways.

 

Being the farthest away from the Yard, she's the last one of the four-man team to make it there, and as she enters, for the first time in The Case's history - not one of them says hello.

 

Instead, she appears to have caught the group in an argument.

 

" - sadly, it seems we may have no choice but to hand things over to MI-5, with this latest -," comes the Commissioner's broken-sounding voice, but he is instantly cut off by Al, who looks more unbalanced than Hilda's ever seen him.

 

"Like _FUCK_ we will! However long it's taking _us_ to solve this case, it'll take them two, three, four times _longer_!"

 

"I agree with Al," Justin says, and even _his_ hands are shaking. "We've been on this case nearly a year, it'd take far too long to bring the national fellows up to speed. The lot of us'll just have to double down on the work. You can foist off your duties onto the Deputy Commissioner if need be so we've got a fourth man working full-time."

 

It's only when Hilda pulls off her jacket and places her bag on Justin's desk with a thud that the three men on the pair of couches seem to realize she's there.

 

Even then, _not one of them says hello_.

 

She doesn't ask what's going on. She can't bring herself to.

 

Luckily, the Commissioner fills her in.

 

"At about six o'clock this morning, a postal worker bringing mail to the Hampstead home of Bill Hawks noticed a curious stain coming from underneath the front door. He knocked and rang the bell, but received no response. Worried, the man broke down the door."

 

Hilda's stomach lurches. There isn't a person in London, no, in the _whole Western world_ who doesn't know who Bill Hawks is.

 

She knows what the Commissioner is going to say next.

 

"Once inside, the mailman found the mutilated body of the house's former occupant. A -," the Commissioner's voice cracks, "A single jigsaw puzzle piece was discovered on the man's armchair."

 

Hilda's legs give out from under her and she crashes down onto Justin's desk chair.

 

_It was clear from all of the killings, clear as crystal, that the Jigsaw Killer did not take victims he knew._

 

Every supposition, every theory that they've lit upon, has just gone up in smoke.

 

The country will probably be placed on national alert, now. Armed guards will patrol the properties of those in power, while the Secret Intelligence Service will bring pressure to bear against the Met over jurisdiction of the case, possibly costing Hilda, Al, and Justin their jobs and reputations, forever.

 

Tourists will stop coming to London, fearing that it isn't safe anymore.

 

Airport, train, and road security will skyrocket as the entire city is placed on lockdown in a desperate attempt to ensure that the perpetrator cannot escape.

 

The only saving grace is that, at the very least, the body was discovered too late for news of the murder to make the papers' morning editions.

 

The Commissioner stands, curtly informs the three detectives that they have five minutes to ready themselves before meeting him in the parking garage - he intends to join them in their investigation of the scene.

 

 _Probably to avoid charges that he isn't involved in the case_ , Hilda thinks to herself.

 

She supposes she should go easier on the Commissioner, knowing that he's steeling himself for the inevitable fight with both the SIS and Parliament in order to try and keep the case in their hands, but still, she just can't tame her own bitterness.

 

 _I wish I'd never taken on this case_ , part of her thinks. The other part of her, the one that usually provides a swift rebuttal, is for once silent.

 

Before he leaves the room, the Commissioner lays a pair of photographs on the coffee table, faxed over from the machines in the victim's house by the detail he has guarding the crime scene until they arrive.

 

"This is what we're dealing with, you three. It's time to prove yourselves."

 

He leaves the room without a second glance.

 

Hilda crosses over to the couches, sitting beside Justin and peering at the photo he's picked up.

 

Her heart turns to ice.

 

In the photograph is a note, written on a piece of stationary from Bill Hawks' office during his days as Prime Minister, with one of Hawks' own fountain pens.

 

_"You're welcome, City of London."_

 

She looks up to see Al on the couch across from them _shaking_ with rage. The photo he's holding slips from his fingers, and as she goes to pick it up, Al slams his hands down on the coffee table, making Hilda jump.

 

Al stands rapidly, fingers fumbling badly for a cigarette, and he lurches over towards a corner of the room where he stands, tapping his feet and desperately sucking in the smoke.

 

As she picks up the photograph and examines it, Hilda can see why he's reacting like this.

 

Hawks' corpse hangs suspended in what must have been the man's living room, dressed in the same suit-and-tie ensemble he wore to numerous press conferences and other televised appearances. His right hand, stretched out unnaturally in front of him, grips a silver scale, while streaks of blood that look for all the world like tears of pure anguish line his face.

 

The top of Hawks' head has been sliced open.

 

There is something - two things, actually - sitting on the scales in Hawks' hand.

 

"Is that -," Hilda puts a hand over her mouth, and feels as though she may vomit.

 

"His heart. And his brain," Justin exhales heavily.

 

The tears of blood on Hawks' face leak from underneath a pure white blindfold tied around his eyes.

 

 _Justice is blind_.

 

Hilda's fingers clench and unclench, and she wants to scream, but the noise won't come. The lump of fear and nausea in her throat is blocking it.

 

Justin's fingers brush over hers, and as she stares blankly at the coffee table, Hilda grabs onto his hand with a white-knuckled death grip.

 

In the corner of the room, Al, now finished his cigarette, can wait no longer.

 

"It's **_DESPICABLE!!!_** " She has never heard him yell like this before.

 

(To be honest, she's glad that he _is_ yelling. Perhaps his humanity is finally coming through. Perhaps he is finally starting to see these crimes for what they are.)

 

The next words from his mouth shatter that hope in an instant.

 

"Look at the amount of blood coming from his wounds, the hole in his cheek that they've tried to cover up. The fucker was shot real nice and quick - all the other wounds you see are post-mortem."

 

Al grinds his teeth, pacing frenetically, his disheveled hair and manic eyes and limbs tensed up to the breaking point making him look more animal than man.

 

"That wound in the shoulder wouldn't have killed him, but the neighbours were never woken by a scream. Obviously the killer was using a silencer on his gun, yes, but his _death._ He would've only felt that shoulder wound for a few seconds before being shot in the head. All those things he did, and in the end, he _barely even suffered_."

 

Hilda's mouth hangs open.

 

The bloody violence, the sheer arrogance of this killing means nothing to Al.

 

What matters to him is simple - _the victim didn't suffer enough_.

 

She finds herself glancing towards the door as her basest instincts tell her one thing, and one thing only:

 

_Run._

 

"What are you saying, then, Al?"

 

Justin's voice, somehow still steady, cuts her out of her animal terror.

 

"Would you have preferred for the mutilation to be done pre-mortem, instead of post?"

 

The ringing of the telephone, a signal from the Commissioner that their five-minute grace period has elapsed, cuts Al off before he can respond, but the damage has been done.

 

Justin lays his right hand, warm and comforting, overtop Hilda's own freezing right hand, still clutching Justin's left hand tightly with no intention of letting go.

 

She turns to look up at him, lip trembling. _Help me,_ she thinks, and to her great relief, he sees it in her eyes, and the return look he gives her provides her some small comfort, even now.

 

_I will._

 

"C'mon, Hildy. Let's go meet the Commissioner," Justin removes his right hand and slips the two photos into his jacket pocket. Hilda stands with him, and they both make for the door while Al stands motionless in the corner.

 

(If Hilda had bothered to look back, she would have noticed a look of dread on her lover's face.)

 

(Instead, she makes a point of exiting the office first, with Justin behind her. She isn't going to trust her back to Alfendi Layton. Never again.)

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_April 1984_

 

After pulling an exhausting pair of all-nighters, Hilda feels as though at last they're beginning to make some progress on The Case.

 

True, there's still a long way to go, but the simple kindness the Commissioner showed in granting his three subordinates a day of rest in reward for their hard work is duly appreciated.

 

To be honest, she bloody well deserves a rest after helping the team pinpoint the Jigsaw Killer's location as somewhere within the Poplar district.

 

It's just that it all feels empty.

 

She hasn't been on a date with Alfendi in weeks now, and neither has stayed overnight at the other's place for nearly two months. They're still together, technically, it's just…

 

Lonely.

 

Hilda supposes she prefers it like this, though, considering Al's increasingly unstable state of mind. She knows that the best thing to do would be to simply sit him down and tell him that, with the stress of the case amplifying their already combative relationship, the best course of action might be to simply go back to being friends.

 

But given how easy it is to set Al off these days, she's worried. It's silly, and it's unfair to Al, but the little part of her that wonders if her breaking up with him would cause him to snap grows stronger every day.

 

And she hates herself for it.

 

 _We've been friends for years_ , she thinks. _I shouldn't be viewing him like a criminal._

 

( _He shouldn't be acting in a way that would **cause** you to view him as one_, she thinks.)

 

She does enjoy her alone time. But after weeks of coming back to her empty flat, with no presence to simply _exist_ alongside her as she eats, watches television, does her crosswords is taking its toll. She just wants some human interaction outside of The Case.

 

So it's no surprise that, when the phone rings and she recognizes Justin's number, Hilda rushes to pick it up.

 

 _I accidentally received the wrong take-away order and ended up with enough food for a small army_ , he tells her. _Would you like to come over?_

 

Hilda's smiling and nodding before he finishes speaking.

 

_Yes._

 

When she arrives at Justin's flat, he pulls her into a hug, and she almost wants to cry from it.

 

(She wants to receive affection, to receive friendship, to receive love. Is that so wrong?)

 

There's a couple of beers sitting on the table, and indeed, a veritable mountain of takeaway boxes containing all sorts of dishes.

 

(As the pair of them dig in, Hilda doesn't ask Justin if he invited Al. She knows that he didn’t.)

 

(She's _glad_ that he didn’t.)

 

After a couple of beers and enough noodles and lemon chicken to kill a man, Justin gets up from the table and plunks himself down on the couch, turning on the television and flipping channels until an episode of _Cheers_ pops up.

 

Hilda, feeling pleasantly buzzed but nowhere near drunk, grabs the last two beers from the six-pack in the fridge and joins him, sitting somewhat closer than she should be.

 

( _You're still Al's girlfriend. Don't do wrong by him. And don't do wrong by Justin._ )

 

( _Shut up,_ she thinks.)

 

She finds herself enjoying the simple act of watching a light-hearted sitcom and being in the presence of another far more than she had anticipated. More than that, she finds herself smiling and even _laughing_ at the show.

 

She doesn't smile very often these days, and laughs even less frequently.

 

"It's good to hear you laughing again, Hildy," Justin says with a smile in his voice, and Hilda is touched.

 

 _Al would never say that to you_.

 

It's getting harder and harder to shut down that insistent voice in the back of her skull.

 

Finding her own beer empty, Hilda slides her hand over to Justin's and pulls his own beer away from him. Surprisingly, he lets her.

 

"Sharing is caring," she mumbles, and leans into him.

 

It's only after she's drunk the better part of Justin's beer and handed it back to him that Hilda realizes what kind of position she's landed in.

 

She is pressed up against Justin, her cheek nestled against his side and her hand, rather than get itself stuck in between them, has found its way onto the top of Justin's thigh. And his arm…it's draped over her shoulder.

 

_This is wrong._

 

_This is right._

 

Even though she remains still, Hilda's mind is ablaze with conflict, and the beers she's consumed certainly aren't helping things.

 

She's Al's girlfriend, Justin is her best friend as well as Al's, and they're in the middle of perhaps the most important murder case of the century. This isn't exactly the time for her to be adding relationship drama to the mix.

 

(She and Al used to sit like this, once, a long time ago. However, Hilda's mind is so clouded with the worry of Al's recent state that she cannot for the life of her remember it.)

 

(Hilda feels more comfortable, more at peace than she has in _months_.)

 

The sensible part of her fights valiantly but is ultimately defeated as she chooses not to move, but simply to bask in the warmth and solidness of Justin's body beside hers.

 

_I deserve to be loved._

 

Eventually, it's Justin himself who gets up, after the show ends, rinsing out the takeaway containers for recycling.

 

"I should probably get home," Hilda thinks out loud, not wanting to go but realizing that she has no reason to stay, that she _can't_ stay, because if she stays any longer then odds are she'll do something well and truly stupid.

 

Justin nods, silent, facing her as she slips her shoes on.

 

She looks back up at him, noticing the sharp cut of his jaw and the lines of his neck and the swathes of his chest hair revealed by the undone buttons at the top of his shirt.

 

_It's the alcohol. It must be._

 

(If Hilda wanted, she could reassert control of herself and bid him a simple good-bye and leave. The truth is, whether she realizes it or not, is that she _doesn't_ want to.)

 

She stands there, shoes on and holding her bag, nothing but her own hesitation stopping her from going home. She feels an itch at the back of her mind. She has never been an impulsive person, but it seems that even Hilda Pertinax can only stand being alone and afraid for so long.

 

"Kiss me goodbye," she tells him, knowing full well that without those three and a half beers she probably wouldn't be saying this.

 

Justin looks at her like she's just shot his mother.

 

_Don't make him do that, Hilda._

 

(Perhaps, she realizes, somewhere deep down she's always known how he felt. She's beautiful, intelligent, dedicated…why wouldn't he be carrying a torch for her?)

 

She sighs, shakes her head as if trying to clear her muddled thoughts.

 

"On the cheek, then," she amends, "the way the French do it." She turns her head, expectant.

 

There is a beat of silence, and then another.

 

Hilda begins to worry that perhaps she's made an irreparable mistake.

 

But then Justin steps forward, kisses her cheek lightly.

 

The urge to turn her head, to kiss him on the lips, is _devastating_. She doesn't know why.

 

(Is she desperate for human connection? Looking for someone who'll treat her with the respect she deserves? Frustrated with her work? Her nonexistent love and sex life? Both?)

 

(She doesn’t want to think about it. She's afraid to.)

 

When Justin steps away, Hilda can't help herself. Despite her best attempts to keep her voice level, her breath hitches pathetically as she apologizes for her behaviour.

 

Justin's smile is warm, understanding, but she could be twice as drunk and still see the undercurrent of sadness in his eye.

 

"Water under the bridge, Hildy," he assures her.

 

"I wanna do dinner again," she mumbles, "I just don't wanna be alone."

 

Hilda stares at her feet, eyes swimming. She won't cry. She _won't_.

 

"How 'bout I learn to cook?"

 

This gets her attention. Hilda's head snaps up and she eyes Justin confusedly, unsure whether what she heard was imagined or not.

 

"I mean, I know _how_ , but just tasteless crap that keeps me going. Not real food. You can be my gauge, I guess. Tell me if I'm doing okay."

 

Hilda blinks, hard, and the tears are gone.

 

"I'd like that, Justin. I'd like that a lot."

 

It's on a shared smile that they part, and with Hilda feeling a warmth in her chest that she hasn't felt in weeks.

 

Her troubled relationship, her demanding work seem less daunting now. Even her alone time, which had slowly been turning into a prison, is starting to regain its appeal.

 

_I've got someone to rely on now._

 

Hilda savours that feeling all the way back to her flat, and as she lies there in the darkness, she contemplates what it would be like to be with Justin, and realizes that it would probably be nice.

 

(Perhaps she'll act on that realization someday.)

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_May 1984_

 

They are _so mind-bogglingly close._

 

When the body of Glendon Hodgson was discovered with a jigsaw puzzle piece, the entire team investigating the Jigsaw Killings had panicked.

 

It was not, of course, the panic caused by fear, but the sheer, unadulterated shock that the Jigsaw Killer would be so _stupid_ as to narrow down the Met's list of suspects to a measly four people.

 

Less than, as a matter of fact.

 

They had deduced within a matter of hours that neither Hodgson's wife nor his maid could have been responsible for the deed - that left simply the trader, Keelan Makepeace, and the jeweler, Amir Chowdhury. Both from the Poplar district, thus finally confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt the deduction Hilda had made three weeks ago.

 

While it had been easy to cross half the suspects off the list, the investigation had run into a deadlock almost immediately afterward, as even with all three investigators and the Commissioner working together, it was simply impossible to find a piece of decisive evidence in favour of _either_ of the two men left.

 

Last week, when the four suspects had been pulled in for questioning, it had been Hilda who was responsible for interrogating Mrs. Hodgson and the maid.

 

Today, both Mr. Makepeace and Mr. Chowdhury are being called back in for another round.

 

(Al had been allowed to watch the questioning from behind the two-way mirror, but had been categorically forbidden from actually participating in it.)

 

(At this point, even the Commissioner is beginning to question whether he is stable enough to be kept on The Case.)

 

Hilda hasn't actually _seen_ either of the men, as last time Chowdhury's questioning had been handled by the Commissioner, while Justin had tackled Makepeace.

 

Today, though, the Commissioner is busy, and has ordered that, in the interest of seeking better results, each suspect must be interrogated by a fresh face.

 

Meaning that today, there is a 50-50 chance that Hilda will come face to face with a man responsible for killing twenty-four people in horrific fashion.

 

As she stands in Justin's office, waiting for him to come back from smoking, she fidgets with her cuffs and adjusts her hair for what must be the thirtieth time in the last ten minutes.

 

Al will be in with Justin, today, the Commissioner had told her.

 

(Part of her is worried to have to be going at it completely alone, but another part of her is relieved, to be honest. She's worried how Al will actually handle things once the culprit is finally discovered.)

 

As Justin re-enters the room, he says the words she's been expecting for three days, but hearing them still sends a lance of nerves through her heart.

 

"Mr. Makepeace is waiting for you in questioning room two."

 

Justin squeezes her hand reassuringly.

 

"It's okay - I had him last week. He's a big guy, and a little rough around the edges, but at least he isn't a smarmy little shit like that jeweler was, if the Commissioner is to be believed."

 

She laughs at that. Justin is right - she'd probably prefer someone from the wrong side of the tracks to an oily two-face.

 

As they make their way down to the basement and reach the interrogation rooms, Justin smiles. "You'll be fine, Hildy. Promise."

 

With that, he enters his own room, leaving her on her own.

 

Hilda's feet carry her to the end of the hall, seemingly of their own accord.

 

She swallows, and steels herself.

 

_You are Hilda Pertinax. You graduated the London School of Economics summa cum laude. You entered the Yard as one of the top five percent of your class. You were hand-picked by the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police as one of the best detectives in the city. There is nothing you can't do._

 

She opens the door.

 

As the man sitting there stands to greet her, Hilda is _shocked_.

 

_When Justin says someone's a big guy, I'm not exactly expecting him to mean that the guy is bigger than **fucking Justin.**_

 

Keelan Makepeace is tall, at least a foot taller than her even with her heels on, and his long, thin limbs and wide, sunken eyes give her the impression of an ambush predator, patiently biding its time before striking with deadly speed and precision.

 

"Hullo, Detective," he smiles lopsidedly, Cockney accent coming through clearly as he offers a huge hand to shake.

 

As she clasps it warily, his grip is steel.

 

_Two can play at this game._

 

She shakes back firmly, the smile on her face all business. "Please. Sit."

 

As they both take their seats, Hilda can't help but notice the leering once-over the man gives her and thinks, however briefly, that maybe she should've lobbied for the jeweler instead.

 

They go over the events, and while he snidely remarks that he already went over everything with that burly bloke last week, she can't help but notice that he seems to be enjoying himself somewhat.

 

(She hates it when suspects get uppity with her, treat investigations as a joke.)

 

(Because it's always, _always_ due to the fact that _she's_ the one interrogating them.)

 

 _Time to make this bastard sweat_.

 

"Blame someone," she says abruptly, switching tack.

 

"Huh?" He winces at having been taken off-guard.

 

_Good._

 

"Well, you're saying you didn’t kill Mr. Hodgson, so clearly, someone else must have. Tell me who's guilty. Convince me," she demands, knowing that this is a risky path to take, but also that it could, if he's guilty and doesn't have the ability to think on his feet, cause him to trip up.

 

Irritatingly enough, he actually makes a pretty convincing case against Mr. Chowdhury.

 

As she exhausts all of her long list of questions, Makepeace leans back in his chair, pushing his probably cramped legs forward. The inside of one of his shoes brushes against her foot.

 

He doesn't remove it.

 

"Detective, can I ask you a question?" Despite the tension she's felt in the air since she stepped in the room, Hilda knows that she can't very well deny a suspect who is still operating under the presumption of innocence. She nods.

 

"You think I'm guilty, don't you?" His smile is not at all like the predatory grin she was greeted with half an hour ago. Instead, it is genuinely charming, and with the almost-gentle light that it brings to his eyes, she considers that perhaps this middle-aged fellow was once a handsome young man.

 

(She's relieved that his question didn't make her start. This interrogation is scaring her - but it's going to take a lot more than that to make her crack.)

 

As she opens her mouth to tell him the official line, that there's a half-and-half chance, his smile changes. It's dangerous again.

 

"Please don't lie to me, Detective."

 

She sighs. If this man _is_ the Jigsaw Killer, she might not get another chance to talk to him ever again. If he isn't, she can simply send him a letter of apology after everything is over. So she tells him the truth.

 

"Yes."

 

He leans back, an eyebrow raised. He brings his left hand, which had been sitting in his lap the whole time, up to the table.

 

There's a marriage band on it.

 

"I've got a little girl, you know."

 

She didn't know.

 

"Ever since her mama died, I'm all that she has left. Do you see that sort of thing, when you look at a person like me? Of course you don’t."

 

_He's trying to rile you up, Hilda._

 

"No, you with your coordinated outfit and your pocket-watch and your perfect coif. Poor man like me, suspect in an investigation? I ain't worth the dirt on your shoes to you, am I."

 

(He's right. She hates to admit it, but not even Alfendi Layton could've seen through her this acutely.)

 

She sighs. "It's entirely possible that you're an irredeemable serial killer, Mr. Makepeace. It would be very hard for even the most detached investigator not to be affected by that sort of thing whilst in your presence."

 

He laughs. "Okay, I suppose you've got a point with that one. But -," he glances at the clock on the wall behind her, "I believe our time is up."

 

Sure enough, there's a knock on the door behind her, letting her know that she's spent the maximum allotted time and that the suspect is allowed to leave now.

 

They both stand at the same time.

 

"Will you be questioning me again?" His head is cocked to the side, and he looks genuinely curious.

 

"Unlikely. We're hoping to get this case buttoned up as soon as possible."

 

His eyes glint strangely in the light for just a mere second, so quick that Hilda isn't sure if she imagined it or not.

 

He nods, crosses the table until he's standing just beside her.

 

(Forcing her to look up, crowding her space. The kind of man that makes her grab her keys and cross to the other side of the street at night.)

 

He holds his hand out for a final shake. "I wish you all the best, Detective," and his smile looks almost sincere.

 

Hilda debates furiously with herself whether to shake or not, but ultimately, she does. As he holds her hand a second too long, and as his fingers slide slowly off her palm as he lets go, there isn't a doubt in Hilda's mind.

 

(Beginning tonight, she will have nightmares about Keelan Makepeace. They will plague her for the rest of her life.)

 

Back in Justin's office, with Al joining Hilda and Justin on the couches, strangely calm and subdued (though, that's likely because he's busy reading the minutes of the interrogations for the umpteenth time), Hilda leans back on the couch cushions and sighs.

 

"He's the one, Justin. I'm sure of it."

 

Justin nods, having read the minutes of her interrogation, just as she'd read the minutes of his.

 

"And what does the Commissioner have to say about that?"

 

Hilda laughs bitterly. "I'm sure you can guess what he told me. Can't move to arrest until we've got something truly damning on him."

 

"He's right, you know," Al says quietly, and that pisses her off, because she _knows_ that much, but hates it anyway.

 

_How many more people are we going to let die before we **find** that decisive evidence?_

 

.   .   .   .   .

 

_May 1984_

 

They have him.

 

Even though Al has barely been functioning enough to be called an independent human being these past few weeks, once the investigation had been narrowed down to two suspects, the genius savant of Scotland Yard had returned, however briefly, in order to carry the investigation he had once been so eager to join to its final conclusion.

 

The atmosphere in the Yard is tense, as it always is before a major suspect is hunted down and brought in for good, but the tension is far outweighed by the sheer jubilation.

 

Officers that Hilda has never even met say hello to her as she passes in the halls, pop into Justin's office to offer the team their heartiest congratulations.

 

 _Keelan Makepeace is the Jigsaw Killer_.

 

(That sentence, although she doesn't know it yet, will change her life forever.)

 

(That sentence, something she'd been saying for weeks, was only accepted after two more victims were added to his body count, with the final dead woman providing the damning clue.)

 

Justin looks the way she feels, exhausted and yet immensely proud.

 

Al, on the other hand, looks completely shell-shocked. She doesn't understand why it is he doesn't look prouder than the rest of them - the old Alfendi Layton would be racing through the halls, crowing about how it was _his_ investigative skills that helped them finally pin the culprit.

 

But this isn't the old Alfendi Layton.

 

This case has taken something from him, something Hilda worries that he might never get back.

 

"Al?" Hilda speaks to him gently from where he sits, curled up in the corner of one of Justin's couches as Justin himself is off finding a bottle of champagne.

 

He looks up at her, almost shyly. "Yeah?"

 

Hilda, in that moment, can almost believe that he's sorry for everything he's done.

 

 

_I'm not in love with him anymore - but perhaps we don't have to break up. Perhaps we can start by re-establishing our friendship and then go from there._

 

It's with a laugh that, when a red-faced and already somewhat drunk Justin gets back with an open bottle of champagne that Hilda suggests they get takeaway dinner, one last hurrah for the three great detectives.

 

Justin cheers, and Al smiles.

 

 _Things are going back to normal_.

 

Hilda volunteers to grab the sandwiches herself, soaring on a cloud like never before. It'll be tough bringing Makepeace in, but now that they've found where he's holed himself up, knowing it's somewhere Justin's been before, she's confident that they can handle it. And once he's in - some hard-earned _rest_ , at long last.

 

As she brings back the sandwiches, Al and Justin both cheerfully greet her, the windows of Justin's office open to the beautiful spring evening as both men smoke their victory cigarettes.

 

Hilda can't bring herself to chastise them, instead laughingly scolding Justin for being in bare feet at _work_ of all places, and he playfully swats her on the shoulder in response.

 

Soon enough, all three are joking and laughing as they tear into their sandwiches, and Hilda feels tears come to the corners of her eyes at how happy she is.

 

She had thought, mere weeks ago, that this case had taken everything from her and would never give those things back.

 

But now, she knows differently.

 

When an office assistant sticks his head into the door to inform them that he heard the fax machine in Al's office going off as he passed by, Al genuinely thanks him.

 

_He's going to make a full recovery from whatever it was that was eating at him._

 

As Al leaves to head to his office, Hilda gets up, walks around to the side of the table, and spreads her arms out wide. Without a moment's hesitation, Justin stands and lets her pull him into a hug.

 

"We did it, Justin, we finally did it."

 

She can't see him smile, but she _feels_ it in the air.

 

"We did, Hildy. We did."

 

Things will never be the same again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, a HUGE thank-you to both @anonymouspuzzler and @plebeiantologist on tumblr for their feedback and for getting me back into puzzle hell!! You guys are great, and everyone should check out puzz's Mystery Room fics on this very site, especially as one of the sections of this fic is inspired by her fic, _You Can't Run_.
> 
> Secondly, I know there's a couple things in here that don't line up with the game's canon, but tbh not everything in the game would really work in real life (cough cough "press blackout") so I modified it a little bit....RIP


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